Mrs. Futvoye.
Don't be so fractious, Anthony! For all you can tell, he may have picked up a treasure.
Professor Futvoye.
[Grimly.] He may, Sophia. On the other hand, he may not. Which, on the whole, is rather more probable.
[He retires up to the fireplace as Horace returns, carrying a large metal bottle with a long neck and bulbous body, encrusted with a thick greenish-white deposit. Pringle closes the door for him after he has entered.
Horace.
[Bringing the bottle down to right of table.] Here it is! [The others—except the Professor, who remains aloof—gather round and examine it in dubious silence.] It's not much to look at.
Pringle.
Very dusty! [Wipes his hand after touching the bottle.] And you gave a sovereign for this, Ventimore, eh? H'm! Dear me!